


Different, Imperishable Things

by sunbeamsandmoonrays



Series: Irish Mythology AUs [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, Creepyfinger is...you guessed it, Deirdre of the Sorrows AU, Deus Ex Melisandre, F/M, Jonsa Week 2019, One-Sided Petyr Baelish/Catelyn Stark, One-sided Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark - Freeform, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, but not as sorrowful, trust me on this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbeamsandmoonrays/pseuds/sunbeamsandmoonrays
Summary: When the Targaryen reign is overthrown by Robert Baratheon and his rebellion, it is decided that Westeros will become separate kingdoms once more.  The King and Queen in the North have had three prosperous years of ruling their kingdom, and there's even more cause for celebration when they announce that they are expecting their second child.  When a red priestess's prophecy about their unborn daughter is somehow made known to the public, greed (and lust) cause one man to take the child when she is born for his own machinations.  He has kept her hidden for sixteen years, only for his long term scheme to be ruined by a young man of the Night's Watch.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Irish Mythology AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763872
Comments: 74
Kudos: 160
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	1. Prologue

_“Bend and kiss me now, for it may be the last before our death. And when that’s over we’ll be different, imperishable things – a cloud or a fire, - and I know nothing but this body, nothing but that old vehement, bewildering kiss.”_

_\- William Butler Yeats, Deirdre_

* * *

In honor of their second child’s impending birth, the King and Queen in the North are holding a grand feast. It is the North’s first celebration since becoming an independent kingdom once more, and this feast is already more joyous than the one that took place after King Eddard and Queen Catelyn’s coronation. All the Northern lords and ladies are in attendance, plus some representatives from the southern kingdoms as well. They are all smiles as they eat and drink, and some have partaken to dancing to the merry tune the musicians are playing.

Catelyn winces as she feels another kick, and she rubs her belly in an attempt to soothe the movements within. Her husband notices her wince and frowns. “Is the babe troubling you, my love?” Ned asks.

“I believe the music is making her want to dance, Your Grace.” Ned smiles softly at Catelyn referring their child as a girl, but the frown returns when Catelyn cringes again. He reaches over and places his hand over hers and bends low so he can murmur to the babe.

“Shhh, sweet one. There will be other times to dance. Preferably after you are born, yeah?” Ned then places a sweet kiss on her belly, and the babe’s excited movements cease.

Catelyn turns her hand over to squeeze Ned’s. Her heart warms whenever she sees her husband display his gentle side. And ever since she’s told him of the new addition to their family, he has been showing it more and more. When he lifts his head and gazes at her, Catelyn does not hesitate to rest her free hand across his cheek and bestow a kiss on his lips. “What was that for?” he asks once they are separated. 

“For being you.”

Ned leans toward her, and her eyes flutter closed in anticipation of another kiss, but it never comes. When Catelyn opens her eyes in confusion, she sees that Ned’s gray eyes are focused on a point somewhere behind her. The warm and loving man is gone from her husband’s demeanor; the cold and imposing King in the North has taken his place. “Ned, what is it?” she asks, stroking her thumb along his cheek to get his attention.

“Littlefinger,” he growls, his gray eyes darkening like an oncoming storm. “He’s watching us.”

She releases Ned and turns in her seat to look, and sure enough, her childhood friend is glaring at them with obvious contempt from his place by the wall. When he notices her staring at him, he schools his expression into a more neutral one before pointedly looking away. She’s still staring at Petyr when she feels Ned shifting beside her.

“Ned, remember he is a guest!” she hisses at him, grabbing his arm when he makes a move to rise.

He huffs and leans back into his throne, out of her reach. “I know the laws of guest right,” he grouses, though from the way he makes no more attempts to rise makes Catelyn suspect that her husband had actually forgotten. Ned sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead, below the spot his crown sits. He looks at her guiltily before saying, “I know he’s your friend from girlhood…but I don’t like him being here.”

“I know you don’t,” she murmurs. And to be honest, Catelyn doesn’t really want him here, either. The boy who she viewed as a brother growing up is an entirely different person from the young man who is currently refusing to join in on any festivities. She has a suspicion that Petyr’s being here has little to nothing to do with offering any congratulations on her expanding family, but rather to discover if there’s any strife in her marriage to Ned. _He will just have to leave here being disappointed,_ she thinks.

They both straighten in their respective thrones when they hear the main doors to the Great Hall creak open. It’s impossible to see who has entered through the revelry, and Catelyn purses her lips in annoyance. As if sensing their queen’s displeasure, the crowd immediately begins to part to let the newcomers through. Catelyn now sees three men, each dressed in the silver mail and gray cloaks of Winterfell guardsmen, escorting a person garbed in a blood red cloak. The stranger’s raised hood is concealing their identity, but Catelyn can tell by the way they walk that the mysterious cloaked figure is a woman. Their arrival creates such a disruption that the musicians stop playing their instruments, and even the guests’ murmuring is fading into silence as the four people reach the king and queen.

The guard at the head of the group steps forward. “My king.” He bows to Ned. “My queen.” Another to Catelyn. “Forgive us for the interruption, but…” He gestures behind him to the red cloaked figure. “The lady insisted she have an audience with you.”

“And who is the lady?” Ned asks, giving a disapproving once over of the red hooded stranger.

The lady in question steps forward and lowers her hood. Many in the hall gasp, Catelyn included. The woman is beautiful, with hair as red as her attire and pale, unblemished skin. Her eyes, also red, are unsettling, as she first gazes at Ned, then her, then down to her stomach, before her eyes land on Ned once more. “I am Melisandre of Asshai, priestess of the god R’hllor.” She gives a low curtsy before continuing. “The Lord of Light has shown me a vision of your future in my flames, and I ask to seek a private audience with you to discuss it.”

Catelyn glances at Ned, and she sees he has furrowed his brow in bewilderment. “Forgive me, my lady, but I don’t understand why your… _Lord of Light_ …would show _you_ , a red priestess from Essos, visions of _us_ , and why you would travel _all this way_ to tell us of them.”

Melisandre’s face is a polite mask that gives nothing away. “You will understand when I tell you.”

Ned scoffs, and sensing that he is beyond persuasion Melisandre turns to Catelyn. “It has to do with your daughter, my queen.” Her eyes once more trail downwards. “The one growing in your belly.”

The icy feel of dread trickles down her spine. She places both hands on her stomach in an unconscious effort to protect her child. She and Ned look to each other, and they reach a silent agreement. “Very well,” Ned concedes. He rises from his throne, then turns and offers a hand to Catelyn to help her stand. He keeps his hand grasped in Catelyn’s as he faces the crowd who has been watching their interaction with bated breath. “The feast will continue without us,” he proclaims. “Come with us,” he adds in a quieter voice to Melisandre, who dutifully follows the king and queen out of the Great Hall and into the king’s solar.

At the feast, the music haltingly resumes, but the celebratory atmosphere has been replaced by unease, the people trading worried whispers over what just transpired. There is one man in particular who isn’t participating in the gossip, preferring to stay in his shadowy place by the wall. Petyr Baelish watches the door the king and queen just exited through with hunger in his eyes before he slips off after them. He isn’t noticed. 

* * *

Catelyn lights a candle for the Mother and bows her head to pray. _Please don’t let it be true_ , she wants to beg, but it is useless to wish that. She knows in her heart that the red woman was sincere in her warning to them the night before. 

_Your daughter’s beauty will be unmatched_ , the priestess had said. _Kings will desire her for that beauty, and their coveting of her will bring the flames of war to half of Westeros. Many lives will be lost._

She looks up at the statue of the Mother, the carved face smiling gently. _Please protect my child_ , she prays. _Let her lead as peaceful a life as possible. And if there is a war, let –_

A noise makes Catelyn jump and whirl around to face the sept’s entrance, a hand braced against her stomach. She sees a dark silhouette of a man against the brightness of outside, and her hand tightens its hold.

“I did not mean to frighten you, Cat.” The man steps forward, and Catelyn can see who it is.

She lets out a breath she had not known she had been holding. “It’s quite alright, Petyr.”

He approaches until he’s within reaching distance, a look of deep concern gracing his features. “I came to find you as soon as I heard.”

She furrows her brow. “Heard what?”

Petyr blinks in surprise. “Why, what the red woman had to say.” He lowers his voice, though they are the only two people here. “Her prophecy.”

Catelyn recoils. “You _know_?” _No one was supposed to know outside Ned’s solar_ , she frets. The babe kicks, as if sensing her mother’s distress.

Petyr looks regretful over what he tells her next. “I believe word has spread throughout the entire keep. It wouldn’t surprise me if the commoners in Wintertown knew.”

Her eyes widen in alarm and she gasps. “I need to find Ned.”

She moves to step around Petyr, but he stops her with a hand grabbing her arm. “Wait!” She looks pointedly at his hand, before looking up at him in confusion. _What more does he have to say?_ “I came to offer you my services.”

She wants to pull away, but he holds fast. “What do you mean?”

He leans in closer, and Catelyn can smell the mint in his breath. “It’ll be dangerous to keep the child here, now with everyone knowing her fate. Give the child to me to raise, and I can have her hidden away where no other kingdom would find her. I would keep her safe for the rest of her days, and I would raise her like she was my own.”

His words sound sincere, but when Catelyn looks into his eyes, all she can see is a dark _want_. A shiver of fear goes through her. “Why would you do that?”

“Don’t you know, Cat?” he whispers, his breath fanning across her face. “Because I love you.” He releases her arm to stroke the back of his fingers along her cheek, his lips parted in desire. Catelyn’s eyes widen in alarm and revulsion. He leans forward, his gaze focused on her lips, and Catelyn is grateful for his mistake of releasing her as she steps back out of his reach. She represses the urge to scrub her cheek clean of his touch.

“I thank you for the offer, Petyr, but this child is a Stark of Winterfell. A wolf. She will be safest with the rest of her pack. And I will _not_ abandon my child.” The babe gives her belly a nudge in support, and her hand rubs the spot.

She thinks she sees a flash of rage in his eyes, but the next moment Petyr’s face becomes a mask of polite indifference. “Of course.” He gives her a slight bow. “I will leave you to find your husband. I believe I saw him last with his bastard son. Jon _Snow_ , is it? It’s interesting that the child has that name when he was born to some tavern wench in the south.”

Catelyn feels her cheeks heat in fury, and she clenches her hands to keep them from trembling. “Goodbye, Petyr,” she says coldly before sweeping out of the sept, not waiting for his reply.

* * *

Two moons later, the bells ring from morning to dusk to herald the birth of Princess Sansa of House Stark. It is a hard labor, but Catelyn forgets about the pain when her sweet babe is placed in her arms, her face scrunched and voice wailing in displeasure. She is quiet now, satisfied after being fed from Catelyn’s breast.

“She is beautiful,” Ned whispers in awe. One of his hands is stroking the soft tufts of red hair on Sansa’s head. The soothing action makes her blue eyes droop closed. Catelyn herself fights a yawn wanting to escape. But Ned notices, anyway.

“Get some rest, love,” he murmurs, kissing her temple. “I’ll take her and put her in her crib.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, not bothering to fight a yawn this time.

“Yes,” he answers, already reaching for their daughter. She doesn’t even see Ned leave their chambers before her head hits her pillow and she’s asleep.

She wakes up some hours later, and Ned hasn’t returned. Noticing that the nursery door is ajar, she decides to get up and investigate. As she pads closer to the other room, she hears voices within.

“She’s so little!”

“So were you, when you were born.”

“Really?”

A rumbling laugh. “Yes.”

She peeks in the doorway, fingers curled over the door latch, and she sees Ned seated in the rocking chair, Sansa nestled in her arms. Her eldest Robb is standing at Ned’s knee, blue eyes peering at his new sibling with interest. Jon, Ned’s other son, is a few steps away, as if unsure if he’s meant to be here. Her fingers tighten over the latch, but before she can open the door further and move into the room, Ned speaks.

“Now boys, this is your little sister. She’s special. Precious. I want you to promise me that you’ll protect her from harm and save her if she needs help. Can you do that?”

Both boys nod. 

“Make the vow.”

She’s surprised when Jon steps forward first. As solemnly as a toddler can, he vows, “I protect you. Promise.” He raises himself on his tip toes so he can bestow a kiss on the babe’s forehead. He steps back.

Robb vows next, “I save you. Promise,” and bestows his own kiss on Sansa’s forehead. Both boys look at Ned expectantly.

Ned smiles at them both, giving them each a nod of approval. “Good. I’m proud of you, my sons.” 

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Catelyn steps away from the scene and returns to her bed, not knowing that when she next checks in on her newborn daughter, she won’t be there.


	2. The Drearfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So it's been a while lol. Sorry about that! Real life and a bout of writer's block got in the way. But at long last, here is an update!
> 
> Bad news (and a warning): this chapter contains a lot of Creepyfinger.
> 
> Good news: this is the last you see of the guy for a good long while. And our favorite Broody McStudmuffin will be making his reappearance in the NEXT chapter, which I promise won't take as long to write.
> 
> Without further ado, on with the chapter!

_~*~_

_Sixteen Years Later_

~*~

The wind whips around her in a frenzy, forcing locks of dark copper to escape from her braid and get caught in her eyelashes and the corners of her mouth. Instead of getting annoyed, Sansa simply brushes the errant strands aside; nothing will impede her joy of feeling the sun on her face after moons of constant dark skies and turbulent rain.

The waters of the Shivering Sea are the bluest she’s seen since she first arrived at The Fingers. No longer the color of angry slate she’s become accustomed to, the current cerulean reminds her of her last views of the Sunset Sea as she sailed away. From her perch atop the cliff’s edge, blue is all Sansa can see for miles and miles…until she spots it: a ship sailing in the distance. She points to it. “And what about that one?” she asks her companion.

Shae adjusts her shawl so she can hold it closed with one hand and raises the other one to shield her eyes from the sunshine. She observes the northbound ship with narrowed eyes for a few moments. “It’s going to the Wall, to deliver men and supplies,” she states simply. Sansa scoffs, causing Shae to turn to Sansa with wide eyes. “What’s wrong with that answer?”

“It’s practical and boring!”

Shae laughs. “And probably true, no doubt!”

Sansa gives an affronted gasp. “It is _not_ true!”

“Well, where do _you_ say it’s going then?” Shae challenges.

“It’s…” Sansa pauses to consider. “…going to Skagos. The Storm King has heard tales of the rare yet fierce unicorns that reside there. He has sent twenty brave knights on a quest to retrieve one of its horns.” Sansa smiles to herself, proud of improvising a fantastical tale so quickly.

Shae’s brown eyes twinkle with amusement. “Why doesn’t the Storm King retrieve a horn himself? Is he a coward?”

“No!” she denies quickly. _What would happen in one of the songs?_ “The knights are all vying for the princess’s hand in marriage, and the king will grant it to the one brave and clever enough to retrieve a horn.”

“Ah, I see.” Shae faces the horizon once more, her black hair fluttering around her face in the breeze. “Hopefully the princess will be happy with her champion.”

Sansa’s jovial mood disappears in an instant. _Life is not like the songs_. “She won’t,” she says quietly.

Shae remains quiet, probably sensing that Sansa’s thoughts have taken a dark turn. Her stomach churns with guilt. _I ruined it_ , she thinks sadly. But Shae gently nudges her to get her attention and points ahead. “There’s another ship, my lady,” she announces quietly.

She almost tells her she’s no longer in the mood for the simple game they created to pass the time outside, but something about the ship makes her pause. Instead of sailing further out into open waters, it seems to be heading towards them. And soon it’s close enough that Sansa can make out certain details. She can see that all the sails of the ship display the Falcon of House Arryn, and at the top of the mainmast there is a flag that displays a mockingbird…which has become the personal symbol for – _Oh, no_ , Sansa thinks, going numb with dread.

Shae gasps, apparently seeing the flag and reaching the same conclusion as Sansa. They both turn to look at each other with wide eyes. They stay frozen for one breath…two breaths…

Then simultaneously, they gather their skirts in their hands and scurry down the hillside towards the old flint tower that they’ve been staying in these past several moons…the very tower which belongs to their unexpected visitor, Lord Petyr Baelish.

Sansa is used to him popping in like this without sending word ahead. Even though he is her sole guardian (she has never known her mother or her father), Baelish is too busy to stay in one place for long; he has simply hired others to look after her and raise her while he conducts his business throughout Westeros. She would only see him if he was inquiring about her progress in education (when she still had a septa and maester to learn from) or if he was retrieving her to live in another secluded manse in a different kingdom.

Why is he here this time? Sansa thinks she knows, and her breath heaves with anxiety rather than from her physical exertions of running towards the tower.

Just as they reach the tower’s base, Umfred, the ancient steward, steps out from the doorway. “I was wondering if you would show up on time,” he calls out to them.

Sansa drops the skirts that she had gathered up to her knees in mortification. Her face, already flushed from running, heats even further at the thought of being seen in such an undignified manner. Shae has no such qualms, however, stalking up to the old man with her skirts still clenched in her fists. “Did you know he was coming?” she accuses.

Umfred gives her an unimpressed look. “I’m just as informed as you are, which is to say, not at all. Bryen just happened to see the ship approaching during his patrol.”

“Could you delay him?” she asks next.

Umfred raises his thin arms over his head and stretches, and Sansa can hear several of his bones pop in succession. “These old joints of mine will be delay enough, I’m sure.”

Shae only gives a jerky nod in response, so Sansa steps up to him. “Thank you, Umfred,” she tells him sincerely.

The old man’s blue eyes look at her kindly while he gives her a grandfatherly pat on the cheek. “Just doing my duty, my lady,” he says almost bashfully. He then calls over his shoulder, “Well, come on, Bryen! You know how Lord Baelish doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Right-o!” Bryen, the equally ancient captain of the guards, appears at Umfred’s side. Sansa startles, because she had not even noticed him descend from the tower’s steps. “My ladies,” he nods to both Shae and herself, before he and Umfred make their way down the path to receive Baelish.

Despite Umfred’s assurance that he and Bryen would delay Baelish, that doesn’t leave them much time. After hurrying up to Sansa’s chambers, she and Shae immediately work in tandem. Sansa’s mud splattered boots are unlaced and tugged off and slippers are set down to step into. Her wrinkled day dress is taken off and Shae helps her into a gown of purple velvet with pearls stitched into the neckline. Then Shae ushers Sansa over to the vanity to style her hair into something less windswept.

Sansa watches Shae in the mirror as she unplaits her hair and brushes out the red waves until they shine. Under her practiced hands, Sansa is transformed from a bedraggled wild creature to a flawless noblewoman. Gazing at her own reflection, she reminds herself of the porcelain dolls Baelish used to gift her when she was a girl. How Sansa used to handle those dolls so delicately…she would barely touch the things in fear of breaking them. Eventually, all of them would end up sitting on a shelf, collecting dust but otherwise perfect.

 _That’s what he wants me to be_ , she thinks. _His perfect porcelain doll_.

“Shae?”

“Yes?” she asks absentmindedly. The other woman’s focus is on fixing Sansa’s hair - twisting sections of hair away from her face in a simple yet pretty style.

“Y-you don’t think…?” Sansa trails off, afraid to voice her question aloud.

Shae’s eyes meet hers in the mirror. Sees the trepidation in her expression. “No. Not enough time has passed. It’s just a regular visit, you’ll see.” She fastens the sections of hair together with a bejeweled pin and gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Sansa takes a deep breath to try to calm down - to let herself be reassured. But as she looks on her reflection once again and sees her wide blue eyes, her too pale skin, and her trembling lips, she knows Shae’s attempt at alleviating her fear is unsuccessful.

* * *

They have enough time for Shae to change into another dress before they go down to the tower’s modest hall to wait to receive Lord Baelish. They do not have to wait for long, for they hear the tell-tell noises of a person ascending the staircase before the man himself appears.

Always one to dress extravagantly, Baelish is garbed in the most exquisite outfit Sansa has ever seen: fine leather boots, trousers made of lambswool, and a black velvet doublet embroidered with silver thread with the collar and sleeves trimmed in vair. His gray-green eyes are alight with triumph, and it’s easy to see why: atop his graying hair lies a silver crown encrusted with sapphires. The famed crown of Arryn.

He is a king now. King of Mountain and Vale.

 _Just like he had planned_ , she thinks.

Sansa takes all this in with a face made of stone. She has learned to give little to nothing away during his visits. “Your Grace,” she greets, and she dips into a low curtsy. She hears Shae do the same behind her.

Baelish ventures towards them and bids them to rise with a lazy wave of his hand. “My darling Sansa. You grow more and more beautiful every time I see you.”

Sansa puts on her fake smile she has perfected over time. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He envelops her in an embrace. Sansa’s arms remain stiffly at her side. “There’s no need to be so formal, my love.” He turns his head to whisper in her ear, “You will be my queen soon.”

Sansa shudders internally. “I’m sorry, Petyr,” she says as she steps back. But not as far as she would like, for Baelish’s hands curve over her shoulders to keep her in place.

Shae’s voice pipes up from behind her. “Will you be needing any refreshment, Your Grace? Or rest?” Baelish’s lips curl in annoyance before they form into a pleasant smile that’s as insincere as Sansa’s. Sansa lets out a small breath of relief when he unhands her. _Thank you, Shae_. “You must have had a long journey,” Shae continues.

“Refreshment would be lovely, Shae. I _have_ had a long journey, it’s true.” He moves to take a seat at the lone table by the hearth while Shae slips out of the hall. Sansa remains standing where she is.

“Will your stay be long, Petyr? If it is, I’d need to inform Grisel –“

“Unfortunately, no. I have another stop to make besides here…so this will have to be a short visit. I must depart before the tide rolls out.” Sansa’s smile becomes more genuine, and she lets out another small exhale of relief.

Shae reappears then with a flagon of wine and two goblets. She sets the goblets down and pours a considerable serving in each before going to stand by a wall, to await further orders. Baelish gestures for Sansa to sit by him and she reluctantly takes a seat by her drink. “Well hopefully, the remainder of your time travelling will be short and pleasant,” she tells him.

Baelish chuckles. “Short, yes. Pleasant?” He takes a long swig before setting his goblet down. “Lysa is _most_ impatient to see her sister at White Harbor.”

“Lysa?” _That name sounds familiar_ …

“Yes, my wife. Queen Lysa of Houses Arryn and Tully.”

Sansa blanches. “Oh.” She keeps her gaze steady despite wanting to share a horrified glance with Shae. Baelish looks at her amusedly, knowing that he properly shocked her. She grasps her goblet with shaking fingers and raises it to him. “Congratulations on your marriage,” she toasts hastily.

He smirks but complies, never taking his eyes off her while he drinks. Sansa takes a hesitant sip of her own drink, and tries not to grimace at the bitterly sweet taste as it hits her tongue. She sets her drink down quickly. “Leave us, Shae,” she hears Baelish calls out.

Sansa chances a look at her handmaiden then. The older woman’s dark eyes are glaring daggers at the back of his head. “Yes, my lo - …I mean, Your Grace,” she says tersely. Her eyes soften when they turn to Sansa, and with an encouraging nod from her, Shae leaves them alone.

There is an awkward moment of silence between the two; the only sound in the hall comes from the fire burning in the hearth behind them. Sansa counts one, two, three, four pops from the enflamed logs before Baelish breaks their quiet interlude.

“How have you found your stay here? I hope it hasn’t been terribly boring for you.” He sounds like a normal doting father figure, but Sansa knows how quickly that guise could fall. She still decides to play along.

“It’s been…quiet, yes. But not bad. Your family home is quite quaint.”

“I have described the Drearfort in many ways, but I’ve never used ‘quaint’ before.” He takes another long pull from his goblet and sets it down once more on the table. The hollow clanging noise it makes has Sansa assume it is empty. “Have you been keeping out of sight?” he asks, his gray-green eyes staring at her intently.

“Yes,” she answers, returning his gaze steadily. It is technically true. Today is the first day she dared to venture outside, and no one saw her save from an extreme distance on a passing ship. “I don’t understand why I have to, though. The last place in the Westerlands –“

“- was in the Westerlands,” he interrupts curtly. Sansa blinks in surprise. Is he saying it’s more dangerous here in The Fingers than it was on the opposite side of the continent? There’s scarcely anyone around. Even in the Westerlands, there was the potential threat of an attack from the Iron Islands. The only kingdom close enough to attack this nearly abandoned jut of rock would be The North, but they would never attack a close ally, would they? Unless they have cause to…

Before Sansa could think more on Baelish’s blunder ( _Was it truly one? Or was it another one of his games?_ ), he rises from his seat and saunters his way over to where she is. From the way he looms over her, she is forced to look up at his leering face. “You’re a beautiful young woman, sweetling. The type of beautiful that can attract…the _wrong sort_ of attention.” 

_Like from yourself?_ she thinks viciously, but bites her tongue at saying it aloud.

His fingers brush aside the long hair covering her shoulders and they linger on her collarbone, before daring to venture further down to pinch one of the pearls stitched on her neckline…dangerously close to her breast. She shows no outward reaction save for the clenching of her fists. “You belong to _me_ , and I would be… _most_ _unhappy_ , if any of my possessions were harmed or… _unsullied_ , in any way. Do you understand?”

 _His perfect porcelain doll_. “Yes.”

“Good.” He leans down, and Sansa closes her eyes in resignation. She hopes that Baelish’s kiss would be chaste, but it seems the drink has made him bold. After coaxing her mouth open, Baelish forces his tongue inside. He tastes of wine and mint…a nauseating combination. It makes Sansa recoil away from him, and he thankfully lets her go with a groan. “You’re going to be a glorious queen,” he rasps against her lips.

“How can that be? _Lysa_ is your queen.” She says this matter-of-factly, but Baelish grins as if she had screeched it with utmost envy. 

“For now,” he says as he straightens. “These things take time, sweetling. Marrying Lysa was a stepping stone to gain my crown. There are still things that must be done before I can give you yours.”

 _He speaks of murder_ , she realizes with horror. _He’s going to murder the queen_.

So distracted is she that she isn’t even aware of Umfred entering the hall. “The tide is beginning to recede, Your Grace,” he announces. Baelish steps back until there’s a respectable distance between them while she rises on unsteady legs. Umfred gives no indication that he witnessed anything untoward, but Sansa’s cheeks heat in humiliation all the same. This is the second time in one day that this has happened.

“I have lingered long enough,” Baelish murmurs quietly to her. “The next time I see you will be when I make you my wife and queen.”

 _May I never see you again, then_ , she prays fervently. Outwardly, she says, “Farewell, Your Grace,” as she gives a parting curtsy.

As soon as the new king sweeps out of the room with Umfred, Sansa harshly swipes at her mouth with the back of her wrist in an attempt to remove his vile kiss from her lips. It doesn’t work; she can still feel him there…right under her skin. She glances at her mostly full goblet and briefly considers drinking from it…to become oblivious to the disgust and shame warring inside her…and she even brings it to her lips, but she catches a whiff of the drink and is further reminded of the man. The goblet slips from her fingers, clatters against the flagstone floor, and the wine splatters out…barely avoiding staining the hem of her gown. Sansa stumbles away from the mess, and she almost cries out when she feels a hand grasp her arm.

It is Shae, and her face is pinched with worry. “What’s wrong? Did he do anything to you?” she asks.

“Nothing that he already hasn’t done before,” she replies dully, turning away from her handmaiden’s kind eyes. Her gaze trails back to where the wine spilled, and she watches the red liquid seep into the stone’s cracks with an odd sort of fascination. Keeping her eyes on the red puddle, Sansa takes a deep breath and haltingly tells Shae what Baelish revealed (and didn’t reveal) in their private conversation. “I’ll kill myself before I marry a man like him, Shae,” she confesses, before promptly bursting into tears. Feeling Shae put a comforting arm around her shoulders only makes her cry harder.


	3. The Black Crow and The White Wolf

The wind and rain return with a vengeance, forcing the waves nearby to ascend and crash mightily against the cliffs. They’re almost high enough to reach their tower. Sansa wonders if she would even mind if she gets swept into the tumult. 

As the weather grows worse, so does Sansa’s mood. Never before has she felt such bone-deep weariness towards her current situation. Petyr plans to murder, and probably _has_ already murdered, for the sake of his desire to rule a kingdom alongside her. She feels absolutely disgusted…and overwhelmingly guilty…for she feels as though she’s partly to blame for this. She longs to warn someone of his planned treachery, but she knows no one would heed the words of an unknown young woman such as herself. The only way she _does_ know to stop Baelish from succeeding completely is to escape from his grasp, but where would she even go? Would anyone even help her? Or is the world as dangerous and cruel as Baelish claims it is (like _he_ actually is)?

Sansa gets her answers in the surprising form of her handmaiden. On the fourth day of this never-ending tumultuous weather, with the sounds of booming thunder and pounding rain masking their footsteps against the flagstones, Shae ushers Sansa inside her modest servant’s quarters and bolts the door behind them. “You cannot tell anyone else in this tower about this,” her accented voice whispers harshly, her expression the most serious she’s ever seen. Though bewildered, Sansa nods her assent, and Shae retrieves a purse expertly hidden behind a loose stone in the wall. When Shae hands it to her, Sansa gasps at its contents.

“Shae…how did you...?” she trails off, her wide eyes fixed on the amount of silver stags and gold dragons she sees inside. It has to be a small fortune’s worth, at least. She cinches the purse and hands it back, fighting the urge to glance suspiciously around the room in search of possible eavesdroppers. Shae turns to put it back in its hiding place.

“I’ve been saving it, from working as your handmaiden and…my last job.” Sansa notices how Shae’s shoulders tense up slightly, but before she can ask what’s wrong, Shae whirls around to face Sansa once more and says, “There should be more than enough for us to get away and start a new life somewhere else.”

Sansa’s breath catches. “You would help me?” 

“Yes.” Shae squares her shoulders, her brown eyes glittering fiercely. “No one should be forced to do something they don’t want to do.”

Blinking back grateful tears, Sansa rushes forward to hug her. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Shae.”

Returning the embrace, Shae only says, “You’re a survivor, Sansa. Never doubt that.”

* * *

With renewed hope lifting her spirits, Sansa tries to occupy her time by helping around at the tower. She starts by mending any clothing that needs patching up, first hers and Shae’s (for surely it will be needed for later), and then anyone else’s who is willing to leave their items of clothing with her. But since the tower has so few residents, Sansa is able to accomplish her task in no time at all.

Her next task will not be as simple, for it requires going to the tower’s caretaker Grisel and asking if she needs any assistance. And unlike the other members of Baelish’s household staff, the old woman has never warmed up to Sansa. But Sansa puts on a brave face anyways and approaches her one early morning.

“I have things quite handled, Lady Sansa.” 

Sansa had expected this answer. But still, she deflates slightly. “Oh. Mayhap I could help Kella with her duties?” she ventures.

If Grisel bristled at Sansa’s first suggestion, she now looks completely offended at her other one. “His Grace left specific instructions for you not to venture outside, and do you want to catch your death being exposed to _this_ weather?”

“Of course not, Grisel.”

Grisel’s dark, beady eyes peer up at her, and though she’s almost a head taller Sansa feels very small and insignificant under her gaze. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you and your hand _maiden_ gallivanting about that day. And I know that you hid that fact from the king, what with Umfred’s poor attempt at delaying him. Be grateful that I didn’t tell him then…but know that I can always change my mind and write a letter.” And without even a good day, Grisel leaves Sansa gaping after her.

In a fit of sheer obstinacy (or is it merely madness?), Sansa dons a cloak and makes the trek to Kella’s cottage, anyways. The woman in question looks equally confused and concerned when she finds a drenched Sansa on her threshold.

“Lady Sansa?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if you needed help with your duties, today?”

Kella eyes her warily before speaking. “I thank you for the offer, miliady, but I’ll be tending to the sheep today, and we can’t have you ill.”

It’s exactly what Grisel just told her, only Kella seems apologetic in saying so. Sansa wrings her hands. She’s still too upset to go back to the tower just yet. But she can’t just ask Kella if she can lounge about in her home while she is working! However, when she hears the chatter of a child or two coming from within, an idea quickly forms. “Mayhap I could look after your children while you tend the sheep?”

Her words are tinged with desperation and she’s sure Kella will quickly brush aside her offer, but a genuine look of gratitude crosses the other woman’s face. “Oh, that would be _lovely_ , milady. That way I needn’t worry about any of ‘em drownin’ on their way to the kitchens.” And without further ado, she ushers Sansa inside.

* * *

Sansa spends a sennight going to Kella’s home to look after her youngest children while Kella and her oldest boys Finn and Josef work outside. The little ones don’t give Sansa any trouble. Jem prefers to sit by himself and play with his toy soldiers, and after one awe-filled look at Sansa’s hair, Sansa gets Millie to sit patiently while she styles the girl’s soft, wheat-colored hair into one that mimics her own. And when Kella and the boys return in the afternoon, Sansa makes her way back to the tower.

She doesn’t bother with hiding where she’s been from Grisel. After the first day at Kella’s, Sansa had confided in Shae about the other woman’s claim to write to Baelish. “She’s bluffing,” Shae had scoffed. “Have you seen _any_ bird flying in _this_ recently? Let alone a _raven_?” Sansa had agreed with her that it was an empty threat, but couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if the inclement weather improved.

She needn’t have worried on that front. “The winds are growing colder,” Umfred announces one morning. “Winter will soon be upon us.”

And he’s right. The very next day, the winds begin to blow ever fiercer, whistling through cracks in the stone walls and nipping at exposed skin. The pounding rain changes into sleet first, then snow. And the snow continues to fall…and fall… 

Poor Bryen and Umfred are affected first; their old bones cannot handle the freezing temperatures outside, so they are forced indoors. Then Grisel sprains an ankle slipping on a patch of ice and becomes bedridden until it heals (and despite their mutual dislike of each other, Sansa prays that Grisel’s injury isn’t causing her too much pain). More logs are added to fireplaces in an effort to stave off the cold, and pathways are routinely shoveled out. There is an air of misery surrounding the place, permeating the walls and sinking onto the cold stone floor.

But not at Kella’s home. This is the first winter that all four of her children have experienced, and when the snowflakes finally taper off, they immediately set out to enjoy it. Sansa is enchanted as well. There is just something magical about the pristine white snowfall blanketing their surroundings and the peaceful stillness it has created. The weak winter sunlight makes the snow sparkle in some places, and out of the corner of her eye Sansa swears she can see the very air sparkle as well.

And there are so many fun activities to _do_ with snow as well. Currently, Finn, Josef, and Jem are grabbing handfuls of the stuff and lobbing it at each other. Millie stays by Sansa’s side and together they make a snow castle. Sansa had built plenty of sand castles before when she was in the Westerlands, but never one made of snow. She decides quickly that she prefers it.

Just as they put the finishing touches on the turrets, Sansa spies a crow land not too far in front of them. It is the first bird she’s seen for weeks. It’s seemingly unbothered by the ruckus the boys are making, fluffing its black feathers and ambling around in the snow. It must need to rest its wings for a spell.

“A prince,” Millie’s voice startles her out of her observation. The young girl is gazing at their snow castle in contemplation. “It needs a prince,” she repeats.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Every castle has a prince. Or princess,” the girl adds as an afterthought. “But this one should have a prince.”

“And what should the prince look like? Should he be fair haired like the ones in the songs?” Sansa asks teasingly.

Millie wrinkles her nose. “My brothers are all fair haired.”

Sansa laughs. “Fair point.” She looks over her shoulder. “Shae?”

Shae, who had decided to accompany Sansa this morning, looks downright miserable bundled up in many layers. She hasn’t been outside since the day Baelish visited, so she’s stubbornly taking her chance for fresh air now. “Hmm?”

“You’ve encountered more men than I have, right?”

“Yes…?” she answers, dark eyes peering at Sansa warily.

“What did the handsomest one look like?”

Shae purses her lips. “Attraction is all subjective. What I may find handsome in a man, you may not.”

“Oh…” Sansa rolls her eyes at the non-answer, and they land once more on the crow. She considers it, then turns toward Millie and says conspiratorially, “I think I know what kind of man _I_ would find handsome.”

Millie leans forward eagerly. “Yes?”

“He would have dark hair…black like the feathers of a crow…and pale skin like snow.”

“And his eyes?”

“Hmm…” Sansa looks up in thought. “Gray eyes. Like an oncoming winter’s storm.”

Millie sighs dreamily. “He sounds perfect.”

“Your dream man sounds handsome, indeed,” Shae agrees. She had moved while Sansa was speaking, and settles herself in the snow next to her. “It’s a good thing that bird was over there to inspire you. And the snow. And the clouds above us,” she murmurs in Sansa’s ear.

Blushing, Sansa lightly shoves Shae’s shoulder. “Oh, hush.”

Shae giggles. “You have such a vivid imagination, my lady.”

They help Millie gather the snow to make her snow prince, but the sudden noises of cawing and of flapping wings have Sansa stop what she’s doing and look up. Her crow is flying away. She watches until it becomes a distant, dark speck in the sky, and she says a silent farewell to it. _Did something startle it?_ she wonders. Sansa looks around, and her eyes land on some shrubbery about twenty paces away from where she is sitting. Through the snow laden branches, a pair of red eyes stares right back.

She gasps.

“My lady?” Shae asks, concerned.

Sansa blinks, and the red eyes have vanished. 

“It…it’s nothing,” she says to reassure Shae…and herself. Shae had _just said_ she has a vivid imagination. Mayhap it is getting to her.

* * *

Sansa should know better.

She sees those scarlet eyes again precisely two days later on her walk to Kella’s. In one moment, she is trudging along on the deserted shoveled pathway. In the next, she grinds to a halt as she finds the two red orbs right in front of her. And this time there is no shrubbery shielding the rest of the creature from her eyes.

When Sansa had first arrived at The Fingers, her only friend besides Shae had been one of Bryen’s old guard dogs. The poor thing could barely walk, was toothless, and had cloudy, unseeing eyes. She had called him Symeon, after Symeon Star-Eyes. Symeon had immediately latched onto her, and she to him. He had been a great comfort in a strange and gloomy place. When he had died barely a moon later, oh how Sansa had wept and wept…

The creature standing in front of her now is _nothing_ like Symeon. Its long, thick fur is the exact same shade of white as the snow beneath their feet. Its snout appears to be much longer than Symeon’s, and instead of having floppy ears like him, this creature’s ears point straight up. And it is _enormous_ ; it must be close to the size of a pony, with its head reaching Sansa’s shoulders. Symeon had barely reached her hip.

She should be paralyzed with fear, and yet strangely…she is not. This…wolf…(for it must be a wolf to have a snout like that) has made no move to harm her even though it has had ample opportunity to do so. In fact, Sansa thinks it is just as curious of her as she is of it. In their regard of each other, they have become two frozen statues in the snow, the only sign of life between them being the occasional cloud of mist forming from their breaths.

The stillness is broken by the wolf; its ears twitch one way and then another and it sniffs the air…has it heard something? It turns away from Sansa, and as quickly and silently as it had appeared before her, it is gone.

* * *

“How was your day, my lady?”

Sansa pauses in between brush strokes and considers Shae’s query. _I met a giant white wolf today_ , is her first thought. She desperately wants to tell her, but she suspects that Shae would think Sansa is trying to spin a tall tale. Instead, she replies, “I don’t think Kella needs my help anymore. She and her family are all staying indoors as much as possible to keep warm.”

“Will you be visiting Grisel’s sickbed and beg for something to do?”

Sansa laughs without amusement. “No. I’ll work on my embroidery…and take walks nearby if I need fresh air.” _And see that wolf again_ , she adds to herself.

She sets the brush down on the vanity and turns in her seat to look at Shae, who is currently busy with the task of turning down her bedclothes. “And how was _your_ day?” she asks. “Did you find out anything new?”

Shae has been discreetly asking around for any information about the nearby village: how many people live there, if it receives any travelers, anything that could be of use to their plan to escape. Shae finishes with the bedclothes and straightens, brushing aside a few locks of her curly, dark hair from her face. “We would need to hire a guide, and as you and I have both guessed, not many people leave or pass through this place.”

Sansa sighs. “And I’m sure there have been no newcomers recently.”

Shae bites her lip and shifts uncomfortably. Sansa notices. “What is it?” she asks, rising from her seat.

“There are currently three staying at the inn right now. They got lost in the storm, apparently,” Shae confesses. Seeing the questioning look on Sansa’s face, she plows on. “But they are men of the Night’s Watch. I thought it would be too risky…”

Sansa inwardly curses for getting her hopes up so quickly. Even a person far removed from outside society such as herself has heard of the Night’s Watch’s less than stellar reputation. She tells Shae despondently, “You’re right. They could be criminals or rapers. It _is_ too much of a risk.” 

“We can always try to go out on our own…” Shae offers, not sounding too thrilled at the suggestion.

Sansa isn’t thrilled, either. That option, in itself, is also a risk. They could get lost, caught in another storm, tracked, or all three. “Let’s wait a little while longer,” she decides. “We may get a surprise chance.” Sansa thinks of the wolf again, and adds softly, “Anything is possible.”

* * *

She can practically taste the promise of snow in the air. Sansa knows the signs now. With how low and dark the clouds appear, it’ll probably be a blizzard. She would need to find shelter when it happens, but not now. Sansa will not be deterred from her task. She reaches the spot in the path where she last saw the white wolf, and retrieves from within the folds of her cloak some dried meat she pilfered from the kitchens. She begins tearing the meat into chunks and tossing it on the ground before her. She forms a small trail, starting from just off the path and leading to a lone spindly tree. Satisfied with her work, she sits underneath the tree, and waits.

If asked, Sansa knows she couldn’t explain why she’s so determined to see the wolf again. Any other person would have counted their blessings that they got out of such an encounter with everything intact and not take another risk. So why can she not do the same? Is she just bored? Yearning to experience something like in the songs she still loves?

No. She thinks there is more to it than that. And when she sees those glowing red eyes again, she’ll know exactly what it is.

As if summoned by her thoughts, her white wolf appears. It’s found the food she’s laid out; its head is low to the ground to sniff out and gobble up its prize. Sansa observes it as it meanders her way, and she slowly rises to her feet as it reaches her.

This time, the wolf doesn’t stand apart from Sansa and regard her silently. It lopes right up into her personal space, almost like it is eagerly reuniting with an old friend. 

“Hello,” she greets it, reaching out with her gloved hands to give the white-furred head a friendly rub. It sits on its haunches and closes its red eyes in pleasure.

Though it may not look like Symeon in any way, the wolf behaves extraordinarily like him. “You’re familiar with humans, aren’t you?” she asks, scratching it lightly behind its ears. In response, it shuffles closer to her, eager for more scratches. Sansa giggles and easily complies, scratching down the length of its neck. “Yes, yes, I believe I like you, too.”

When the wolf becomes satisfied with her scratching, it bends its head toward her torso and begins sniffing at the area eagerly. “I brought no more food, sorry.” It stops its sniffing immediately, and Sansa swears she hears it let out a disappointed huff.

“Well, you can’t eat it, but I _did_ make this.” She reaches within the folds of her cloak again, this time bringing out a scrap of fabric: her newest embroidery project. Sansa hasn’t added any details yet, but she already has a clear outline of a wolf’s head. A specific wolf, to be exact. “It’s not finished yet, but it’s supposed to be you. How did I do?”

The wolf regards her work silently, as it seems to do in all things. Then, faster than she could blink, it snatches the cloth between its teeth and takes off running. “Hey, wait! You can’t take it! Come back!”

Sansa gives chase. When the wolf disappears into a dense section of cordgrass, she doesn’t even hesitate in going after it. The tall, dead grass is rough and unaccommodating; it keeps grabbing at her cloak and skirts and she can feel her skin getting pricked through the layers. At least the snow isn’t so deep here. Small mercies. In her struggles to keep up with the four-legged thief, Sansa doesn’t even notice the icy pinprick of a snowflake hitting her cheek. She doesn’t even know if she’s going in the right direction. She spots a line of trees not too far ahead, and decides to go in that direction, praying that she’s made the right choice. 

Finally, Sansa wrenches herself free from the cordgrass. She is just able to catch sight of the white wolf’s tail as it enters the wood. Instead of feeling triumphant, all she feels is rising panic. In going through one obstacle, Sansa has walked unknowingly into another. She definitely notices the snow now, which is falling more steadily around her. And she has no idea where she is. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ She looks around desperately, and recognizes nothing. She doesn’t even see her spindly tree she was sitting under. How far has she gone?

She has no other choice but to continue going after the wolf. Mayhap it can lead her back to the tower. It’s the least it could do, for taking something that belongs to her and leading her out here. She sets off once more.

The wolf is probably long gone by now, but Sansa easily finds the pawprints it left behind. The falling snow will soon cover the tracks if she doesn’t hurry, however. She continues walking a few minutes more.

She hears something. The low murmurings of a voice. A man’s voice. Sansa inwardly curses as she hides behind a tree. She forgot about the village. It must be close by. The man sounds like he is right on the other side of her hiding place. Staying as quiet as possible, she crouches low to the ground and peeks around the trunk.

She sees the white wolf sitting on its haunches and behaving extraordinarily like a trained dog. And standing in front of it is the man Sansa must have heard moments ago. The first impression Sansa has of him is _dark_. He’s dressed all in black: black boots, black trousers, black doublet, black cloak…in this forest blanketed in snow, he’s like an inkblot on white parchment. _He must be one of the men of the Night’s Watch staying at the inn_. Sansa almost lets out a gasp at the realization.

The man starts speaking again. “What have you got there, boy?” he asks the wolf, holding his gloved hand out. Sansa watches as the wolf relinquishes her embroidery with nary a protest. As he observes her work, Sansa observes him. His hair and beard are almost as dark as his attire, but not quite. He looks young, possibly only a few years older than herself, though it’s hard to be certain. His face is long and solemn-looking, but when he breaks out into a grin after looking at her embroidery Sansa’s breath catches a little. _He’s handsome_ , she thinks.

“Did you make a friend and not tell me?” he jokes. And the wolf, the absolute _traitor_ , twists his head around and settles his red eyed gaze directly on her.

The man sees her, too. They stare at each other, her in petrified terror, him in…hopeful disbelief? “Sansa?” he calls to her, stumbling a step forward.

She takes off running. She hears the man cry out in surprise, but she doesn’t stop...

Until she’s forced to. Sansa trips on something underneath the snow and goes sprawling. She hears the footfalls of the man running after her. He’s too close now. What did she trip on? A root? She digs around. No, it was a rock. She can use it as a weapon. She dislodges it from the ground, and waves it above her head just as he reaches her. “Stay back! You hear me?” she warns.

He’s as out of breath as she is. His dark curls are in disarray, and his pale cheeks are flushed from running. “Sansa… _gods_ , it _is_ you, isn’t it?”

She brandishes the rock higher. “How do you know my name? I don’t know you!”

He holds his arms up cautiously, trying to calm her. “My name is Jon. I’m your – I was there when you were born.” He looks around in disbelief. “Have you been _here_ this entire time?!” 

“No, I-I haven’t…” She trails off, unwilling to reveal anything more.

“Your family will be so relieved to know you’re all right.”

Sansa’s heart stops. “I have a family?” she whispers.

Relief crosses his features. He nods emphatically. “ _Yes_. You have a mother, father, and siblings who love you and want you home.”

“They didn’t give me up?” Her voice sounds impossibly small. Baelish always told her…but why had she believed him? He’s a liar and a criminal, she knows that.

“No, sweet girl, you were taken. Right after you were born. They have been searching for you all these years.” He takes a chance and steps toward her. “Do you believe me?”

She absolutely shouldn’t. This man…Jon…is a complete stranger to her, and a black brother besides. But she remembers the white wolf, and her question of why she wanted to see him so badly. This could be her answer. In meeting the wolf again, he in turn leads her to this man. With that in mind, Sansa lowers the rock and lets it slip through her fingers. “I…yes. For some reason, I do.”

Jon smiles at her, but Sansa can do nothing but stare back. Her mind is rushing with so many questions. She doesn’t know where to begin. She can feel herself starting to shake, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the cold or from all the excitement she’s just experienced.

“Ghost, get back here!”

Ghost. It’s a fitting name, for such a quiet wolf. Sansa lets him approach her, and she gives him a scratch behind the ears. She’s no longer mad at him, she finds. “It’s alright. I umm…was actually chasing him.”

“You were? Why?”

“He stole a bit of my embroidery.” Ghost licks her cheek in apology.

Jon withdraws said object from his trouser pocket. “You mean this? I’m sorry about that.” He steps toward the pair, hands her the embroidery, pets Ghost, and says to him quietly, “Good boy.” 

With the fabric now clutched in her hands, the questions she has finally burst free. “Where are they from? What are their names? And you said I have brothers and sisters?”

Jon doesn’t seem startled by her barrage, but he does look concerned when her teeth start chattering. “You’re shaking. Perhaps we should talk about this somewhere else.”

Sansa hesitates, but nods all the same. She trusts him. Like she does with Ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts: Sansa luring Ghost with strips of jerky is inspired by the pudding cup scene in Air Bud lol. And Sansa describing her dream man by looking at a crow in the snow is from the Deirdre myth, only it was a raven and not a crow. I changed it because a crow is more symbolic (men of the Night's Watch are called Crows), and if the show can change the Three Eyed Crow to the Three Eyed Raven, then I can do the opposite! Anyways, Jon is finally here!!! I hope y'all enjoyed reading that as much as I did writing it. And if you did, please leave a review! They fuel me.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


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